Fleeting Comfort
by SrslyNo
Summary: Wilson self-medicates with food to compensate for a lack of House. Can food therapy possibly help? Melancholy piece. Implied House. Follows after S4 finale. Friendship.


**Disclaimer:** No claim whatsoever.

**Skipped breakfast and lunch to write this...  
**

* * *

The morning after Wilson dropped House off at Mayfield, he made his way by autopilot to Mickey's Diner in need of comfort food.

Sharon automatically poured him a cup of coffee as she greeted him with the usual "Hey Doc, what'll you have?"

She expertly scribbled on her pad, pleased at his large appetite which would translate nicely into a big tip, but noted that he was not his usual easygoing self. Making suggestions about how everything should be cooked. The short order cook was gonna love that, she thought.

_Twr/gold X sug_

_3 B/chewy_

_2 E/scr, not dry_

_AplS_

_OJ__/L  
_

"That'll be a French toast tower—golden brown with extra powdered sugar. Three pieces of bacon—chewy. Two scrambled eggs. I wrote down 'not dry' and underlined like you told me. A side of applesauce, and a large orange juice.

"That's a lotta food, Doc. Is your doc friend comin'? Need another setting?"

Ignoring the question, Wilson took a sip of his coffee and grimaced, holding out his cup to the fiftyish, redheaded waitress he had always liked but found overly friendly today.

"Do you have a fresher pot, Sharon? And can you bring me more packets of raw sugar?"

Holding her tongue and not making so much as an eye roll, Sharon smiled. He was one of her regulars and a generous tipper, but there was nothing wrong with the coffee. Mickey's was known for their specialty roast. She had to drink five cups of the bronze brew just to keep up with the constant demand from customers for more.

When she returned, the Doc had his nose back in the menu, and another food frenzy ensued that nearly left her pen out of ink. She read back to him:

"Biscuits and gravy." She looked up. "I'll only bring 'em if the biscuits are still warm from the oven and fluffy. Hash browns, crispy on both sides, but not well-done. An order of sausage links, not patties, and tapioca with a dollop of whip cream on top."

Without thinking, Sharon cracked, "Want that with or without the lumps? That'll cost you extra if you want them taken out. Ralph has to strain the tapioca through his teeth, and frankly, that's hard on his dentures."

"With" was the deadpanned reply.

Dropping off the order while scooping up another table's breakfast, Sharon made faces at Ralph to stop his grumbling as he stood with his hands on his hips, "If your customer is so particular, why don't he come in here and cook the food himself?"

When Wilson's order was ready, she asked Ilene to help her deliver all the prepared dishes to his table. He nodded his head in acknowledgment as plates crowded his table like a new game of checkers, and indicated with his eyes that his mug was ready for a refill. This time, no commentary included. The number of dishes set in front of him may have stunned him back to reality and silence.

No more than ten minutes later, Wilson stood in front of the register ready to pay. Sharon's sharp eyes took in the table as she swiftly went to help him: a bite from the bacon, one pass through the gravy, the Tower still erect and in nearly pristine condition. The flag of whipped cream unfurling over the untouched tapioca.

"Something wrong with the food?" She asked as he proffered his credit card.

"It was fine. Exactly what I ordered."

Puzzled, she asked, "Do you want a doggie bag?"

Wilson shook his head and a rueful expression twitched his lips. "No, thanks."

Automatically glancing at the card before running it through the machine, her scarlet brows drew together. "This isn't your card, Doc, it says Dr. Gre—"

Wilson pulled out the wallet from his slacks. It was House's. He pried open the bill compartment, preserving a poker face. There was more than enough money to pay for his meal, and House owed him, but the thought of taking anything from his friend made him physically ill. House had lost too much already.

"I'm sorry, Sharon. I was at a bar yesterday with my friend, and must have accidentally picked up his wallet by mistake." Wilson finished his lie by beaming his five-star smile. "Want me to start washing dishes, or will you trust me to return later?"

She wasn't impressed by his charm, not when it came to her pocketbook, but the hurt in his eyes softened her reply. "Sure Doc, no hurry. I know you're good for it."

Ilene, who heard the exchange, came up to her and they watched the man hustle across the street to his car, his head down, not paying attention to the cars whizzing by. "Hope he drives safely or you're gonna be stuck with a whopping tab. What's with him?"

Sharon shrugged and fussed with a stray red lock coming undone from her pinned up hair as she headed to clean up the abandoned food.

"Beats me. If we served alcohol, I'd think he just held a wake."

_~fin~_


End file.
